Stephen Shooster While this was happening I could not help but to stare. I forced myself to avert my eyes for fear the guards would single me out for punishment. My face was still swollen and tender. I could not risk another beating. Because we were busy working, this was one time when the Germans did not stop our efforts and isolate us in the blocks while a train full of condemned people arrived. Later, the Sonder Kommandos, who work with the people who were gassed, told me those people were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Pacifist, they refused to fight for the Third Reich. Back in my block, I would soon realize there were two classes of prisoners: Prisoners of politics and war, like the Soviets and the Poles, and prisoners of race, like the Jews and Gypsies. Only prisoners of race were part of the deadly selections. I continued to consider ways I could escape. Moshe Katz was gone; he was sent to Buna. At the time, I did not know what that was, but anything had to be better than here. Nothing could get past the electric fence. I saw dead prisoners in a puddle near the high voltage sign, the red flashing light that foretold the danger highlighted their bodies. One of these poor fellows must have stepped into a puddle that was too close to the fence. As soon as he became entangled in the electric field, another tried to help, but one touch proved deadly and they both were electrocuted. By chance, I saw my old friends again -- Roman Blauner and Simon Unger. They had been looking for me. They were both wearing blue and white uniforms and assigned to the D Section. Their jobs were to take the clothing from the people going on their final walk to the gas chambers. Intentionally, their kommando had an odd name, Komman- do Canada, but its formal name was the Aufrâumungskommando or clearing gang. I showed my friends my beaten face and broken teeth. Roman told me something that gave me a small measure of hope, “There is a Polish political prisoner here from our hometown, Wiktor Mordarski. He helped us get our jobs. I will ask him to help you, too.” He then told me, “Leon, your arrival was called the naked transport. I saw you when you arrived and knew you needed help. This is the first chance I could get to help you. Hang in there.” I shook my head in acknowledgment I would do my best. He was right. I was just hanging on. Things got worse after seeing Roman. I became very ill with diarrhea and fever. In my delirium, I saw my old home and my family, and the friendly smoke from the small stove. I woke and realized I was still in Hell. I had no idea what to do about my sick- ness. I could not show Katarzynski any weakness or ask him for help. He would just as soon finish me off and put me in the corner like the others. He must have known I was sick because I needed to frequently go to the latrine. The bastard would not even let me go to the latrine. He was happy to extend my misery. When I got near the door,
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